Lamb Among the Lions
by dreaming.in.sepia
Summary: One phone call changes Clarice Starling's life when she learns that Doctor Hannibal Lecter has been caught and returned to the asylum where they first met. Set after SOTL, one main canon change. Previously called Returning, before that The Phone.
1. Chapter 1

Clarice Starling unfurled her newspaper and placed it down on the scarred table, sighing. Nothing new there. Not even a murder or a drug raid for her to join or report. Nothing.

She picked up her coffee and swirled it around, trying to rake up the last dregs of flavour. Noticing the white layer on top of the cold brown liquid and wrinkling her nose slightly, she gave it up as finished and stood, intending to clean the mug while she was here. She had nothing better to do, after all. No places to be, people to see or lambs to save.

The truth was that Clarice Starling-recently qualified FBI agent, passed with flying colours and in the top quarter of her class-was bored. Seriously bored. No assignments had come out for her yet, and she was spending her days doing-of all things-paperwork. She shuddered at the memory of the three thousand page report she had filed only yesterday, after having spell checked it, grammar checked it, and ensured all the information was accurate. Twice, for good measure. She remembered her father when she was younger repeating constantly-it had been his favourite saying-"If you do something, do it right. Don't matter what it is, give it your best." And she had tried, really, she had, but...paperwork. Really?

Evidently there was a God, and he hated her.

Ardelia, damn her, had already taken part in two drug busts and a car chase. Although the car chase had been more accidental than anything-Ardelia still swore to Clarice, a week later, that she had only been chasing him because she thought it was a way of flirting and she'd had no idea he was running away after a jewellery heist. Clarice doubted that, but it was comforting that her friend wanted to protect her feelings and she allowed her to continue the deception. It didn't fully help her bitterness though when she remembered that the most paper Ardelia had had to file this week was a birthday card. Clarice's birthday card.

Snapping herself out of her rut, Clarice shrugged on her FBI jersey waiting on the radiator and slipped her house keys into her pocket. It was her birthday, and she was going to go for a long, 10 mile run to forget all about it. Another birthday gone, another day passed by. There would be no celebrations, no candles, no presents except the necessary few. She had ensured it; she had endured enough awful birthdays at the Lutheran orphanage when she was younger to never want to celebrate the day again. The memories it stirred up were painful enough, she didn't want to add singing and sickly sweet frosting to the day as well.

But as she opened the door, stepped outside, felt her lungs contract at the first hit of cold air and watched her breath cloud around her head, finally feeling calm, she heard the phone ring.

In later years, Clarice Starling would look back on this moment and wonder. What would have happened if she had closed the door and let the machine take it? What would have happened if she had run away? Would any of it have happened if she had done that, if she had fled, turned tail and pelted away as far from that phone as she could?

She wondered.

But in this present moment, with her breath unfurling like the streamers she was so desperately avoiding, and the soles of her feet itching for a good pounding, Clarice Starling nevertheless turned on her heel and ran to the phone in three straight leaps. She did pause before she picked it up though, hesitating, just for a second. Who would it be? Who could it be? Who did she want it to be?

But then, with the single mindedness that had served her so well for so many years, Clarice Starling set aside those emotions and focused on the task at hand. She picked up the phone, held it to her ear and barked "Starling" into the receiver.

"Starling, it's Crawford. We've got him."

Her world spun. Her heart stopped for one moment and she saw _his_ face. For which other _his_ could it be? She snapped back.

"Very good Sir. Very good."

And indeed, it was. Very good.


	2. Chapter 2

The florescent lights blinked as Clarice Starling marched down the corridor, ignoring the looks from orderlies and trying not to focus on the cameras pointing at her. She adjusted her shoulder pads slightly to ensure they balanced out her petite frame, and tugged at the necklace she had self consciously clasped to her neck only an hour ago. She needed to look in control, she needed to look strong, and she needed to look...well. Not as though she'd driven as fast as hell fire to get here so soon after that call. As long as he didn't comment on her appearance, she would be fine. She hoped.

"Ms Starling? Is that you?" came the call from the control room at the end of the whitewashed tunnel.

She walked up to the metal gates of the antechamber and smiled at Barney, who was peering out at her. He focused on her for a second, looking up and down before finally nodding and opening them.

"Sorry" he said, "security's got tighter since...well. Could I just have a quick look at your license first? They lost him on their watch, but I won't let us do the same and I don't want to miss any precautions-no matter that I already know who you are."

Clarice, nodding slightly, handed him the FBI license and watched his face change subtly. He looked almost proud of her as he took note of the credentials, laid out there in black and white, with a colour photo to back it up and all protected in a shiny wallet with a badge on the front. He read through all the details and passed it back to her.

"He's through there. I'll be watching. You'll do fine." he said, in a perfect mimic of their first meeting. She wondered whether he'd realised that, or whether he was feeling a repeat of the same emotions he had felt then. Maybe he'd just said it to comfort her. Maybe he just thought she looked scared. At this thought, she straightened her head and nodded authoritatively. Scared was something she couldn't afford to be, let alone look.

Either way, as she walked into the metal cage, ready to face the pit of lions, she could sense that this time, there was something different in the air.

She remembered the story of Daniel in the Lion's den from the Lutheran lectures of her youth, and it bubbled up to the surface of her mind as she saw the bars in front of her begin to slide away. She supposed, smiling slightly at the thought, that that would make her Daniel. But rather than a pit full of lions, she only had to face one. This didn't reassure her much, and her smile slipped . After all, it may only be one lion-but he was the best fighter there was, and worth two pits put together.

The bars slid enough to admit her through, creaking as they did so. She glanced nervously at them. Sucked in her breath. Straightened her shoulders. Tugged at her necklace. Looked one last time at Barney, peacefully sitting behind the desk.

She walked down the long passage, passing cell after cell. After what seemed an eternity, she reached the penultimate empty one. Shuddering, she remembered the last time she'd seen its last inhabitant, and felt a thread of revulsion slide down her throat as she contemplated his fate-and his manners. Unconsciously, she reached up and checked her cheek was clear. Then, rapidly snapping her hand back down, she forced herself to think sharp. She stepped forwards into the pool of light surrounding the last cell.

"Hello Clarice. It's been too long."


	3. Chapter 3

"Good afternoon Doctor Lecter. I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon." she replied, feeling her back muscles inexplicably relaxing.

"While I am, of course, glad to see you Clarice, I must admit that I too share that particular sentiment." he said, his irises flashing a dangerous shade of maroon.

That can't be true, Clarice mentally murmured. This is a man who never makes mistakes; he can't have allowed himself to be caught so easily. So why? Why come back here, and not savour his freedom? What is his game? What is he playing at? Why won't he stop looking me in the eye?

"You surprise me Doctor Lecter; I'd have never thought you would have been found so quickly after such a dramatic escape. I had my money on your freedom lasting a good twenty years more or so."

"Aaah, Clarice. So young and so naive," he almost hissed at her, "while my escape was by no means muted, it lacked something. Something important."

"I don't know what you mean, it worked." she stated bluntly, refusing to be scared by the hissing.

"Indeed it did Clarice, indeed it did."

"So why come back?" She persisted.

"I missed your company of course." he intoned, his face dead straight, but his eyes almost glowing with amusement.

"Now, that I highly doubt Doctor." Clarice sharply replied, feeling slightly shaken.

The truth, highly unlikely it may have seemed to Clarice Starling, was that Doctor Hannibal Lecter really had made a mistake-his first, and his last. He had intended to board a plane to Florence in the evening, having only returned from the Caribbean the day before-after a delicious final meal there.

The sight of the Duomo had been waiting for him; he could feel the wind on his skin at the thought; finally, to be living from sight and not memories-but he had fallen at the last step. He had been spotted after one of his coloured contact lenses fell out at the airport, so caught up in preparations and memories and thoughts that he hadn't noticed. Understandably, the sight of a man with one red and one blue eye who seemed familiar in a bad way had aroused suspicion, and the FBI had been called after a scared clerk checked their website and spotted his passenger on the top 10 most wanted list. Hannibal Lecter was now back behind bars-but he was determined that it wouldn't be for long. And this time, he would have help getting out. And once out, he would stay out.

"Much as it pains me to be too forward, dear Clarice, I am wondering somewhat at your presence here." He raised an eyebrow slightly. "Surely your colleagues at the FBI are against you visiting me, now that my previous escape has been so-publicised."

"On the contrary Doctor, I think they're all just glad that you're back here now."

Realising what she had just said, and how it had sounded, Clarice felt herself cringe slightly. She hoped he hadn't noticed.

He had. It made him smile cruelly to himself at her discomfort-then quickly remind himself he was a gentleman, and should not feel comfort at the pain of a lady. It would not help his cause.

"As, I would imagine, the rest of the good ole' USA is". His voice dripped in sarcasm and he had begun to take on a shadow of Clarice's own West Virginia accent. "But tell me Clarice-why you?"

"Who else?"


	4. Chapter 4

**I've recently published another fanfic about Clarice Starling's childhood, which is linked into this chapter-it's called Fledgling, and it expands on Clarice's childhood in the Lutheran ****orphanage (or at least, I try to).**

**I hope you like this chapter; I wasn't quite pleased with it but hopefully the story will pick up in later ones.**

**And again, please please please review! There haven't been any yet, and I really want to know whether people are actually reading this. **

* * *

><p>"I suppose that is true. No other agent of the renowned FBI would dare to take me on, then. Not brave enough?" He wondered at what she would reply. He hoped for a certain response.<p>

It didn't come.

"It wasn't that so much Doctor, as that Jack Crawford called me the minute you were returned and asked me to come down. The others didn't have much choice in the matter." She refrained from adding that even if they had, most of them would have been running away from, rather than towards the asylum.

"Why?"

She paused. He had picked up on the unsaid. She should have known he would, although this, she would have thought, was fairly obvious.

"Why, Doctor? Why? Because you escaped from your cell and murdered two guards, and then a paramedic who was trying to save your life, and then you made it as far as the Caribbean before coming back. Because given two more hours, you would have never been caught. They're scared of you Doctor, they all are. None of them would come near! But why did you return, why did you come back? Why risk it?"

She watched as, having finished her tirade, he stood stock still. He tilted his head to the left slightly, processing, and she was reminded of a coiled snake, ready to strike. Waiting. Calculating.

She shivered.

"Cold, Agent Starling? I shall have to ask Barney to provide heaters next time; we can't have such a brave agent in discomfort." He spoke at almost a hiss, and she barely stopped herself from taking a step backwards at the venom in his voice. Steeling herself, she listened to his rant. "So you want to know why. What so convinces you that there is even a reason, hmmm? Isn't it easier to think of me as the psychopath with no sense, the Doctor who doesn't know his own diagnosis, as the rest of your beloved FBI seem to do? I could go anywhere, do anything. There is no reason against me going wherever I so choose. The real why in this conversation Clarice, is why you even think that I need a reason. Your colleagues evidently don't."

"But so close to the facility!" She persisted. "Wh-" She reconsidered. That was one word she should perhaps avoid. "-how could you not consider that you might be recaptured?".

"Maybe I missed the scenery." He turned away. "Fly home again now, Agent Starling."

Clarice Starling could barely rein in her anger as she drove back to her semi. He was so arrogant, infuriating, maddening, that she could hardly stand to think about him. She had thought-after Memphis-that there might be something between them. Something that meant he would respect her. She didn't know what she'd thought it was-friendship maybe-but definitely something that meant he wouldn't keep treating her like...like...like a little girl! They had gone back to the beginning again, after all that! The thought of their first meeting, and what he had said to her made her mentally pause, and think about her childhood. It wasn't a period of her life she liked to reflect on much, lonely as it had felt after the death of her father. She had had few friends at the orphanage, and one of them-a man whose first name (she could not remember his second) had been Eric-had died recently. Murdered. She had spotted his obituary, and had recognised the signs of reticence regarding his death that usually typified a murder case being kept under wraps so as not to scare the public. It hadn't helped her mood. She had sat next to Eric in math. Always known that he felt something for her she couldn't return. And now he was dead. And Hannibal-Doctor Lecter-was treating her like an idiot!

She slammed on the brakes, realising she was going at a ridiculous speed; pulled into her drive, stopped. Breathed in. And began sobbing at the steering wheel, emotions crashing like waves around her.

In his cell, Hannibal Lecter reflected on the conversation he had just had. Perhaps he had been unduly harsh. She had looked somewhat crushed by the end of it all. He felt the slightest twinge of guilt in his heart, and froze at it. Guilt was not an emotion Hannibal Lecter had felt for many years, and it was not one he chose to cultivate. It was an emotion that lead to weakness, one that had no place in a decent society or a decent gentleman. But it was one that Clarice Starling stirred in him. Turning towards the wall where his drawings hung-Barney had had pity-he locked eyes with his charcoal Clarice. A sigh escaped him.


	5. Chapter 5

Clarice Starling didn't visit Doctor Lecter for another month, and when she did, it was with her best bag and her meanest shoulder pads. As she drove up, she felt-for the first time-a twinge of fear in her gut. Not apprehension, as was normally felt at this stage of the journey-but fear, distinctly different and much harder to conceal. She hoped he wouldn't know, but the minute she walked in view of his cell and sat down on the uncomfortable metal chair, he raised his nose to the holes in the glass then dropped his head to the side swiftly and stared at her, with a disappointed look in his eyes.

"Afraid today are we, Agent Starling?"

"Never afraid, Doctor Lecter."

"And there is another lie you have told me, I can smell it and your pupils are slightly more dilated than is normal. I can see the hairs on your arms are raised, and I am sure that the slight shake in your hand cannot be due to substance abuse. And I thought we were to trust one another?"

She clenched her fist.

"We are, Doctor Lecter, and I assure you that I am keeping my side of the bargain. I will admit to being apprehensive, and worried, and a little more on edge than I would normally be, but I am not scared" she paused, considering the correct words, "of you."

He considered her.

"In that you are unusual then Agent Starling; I am, after all, declared criminally insane. But why would you be more worried than normal? Surely a visit to an asylum would be enough to cause you fear in itself?"

"I don't fear the asylum Doctor, it is merely a building. But we didn't part on the best terms last time Doctor Lecter-or had you forgotten?"

"So now you worry that I will eat you at the first chance, hmmm? Is that it Clarice?"

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him, horrified. He had misconstrued her words hideously, and she soundlessly-but vehemently-shook her head no.

"Never that, Doctor Lecter."

It was unexplainable, but she felt a sense of calm at her words. Storms, tempests, tornados may all strike her life, but that never would. She trusted completely.

"I am glad to hear it, although it raises the-delicate-question of what it is that you truly are worried about within this prison, if not my-tastes. As for your comment about my memory, I assure you that I have precious little else to think about here in this cell Clarice. I have spent the last 9 years going over my memories until they are faded and cracked as a record. The drawings I could have done, were the supplies permitted to me, could have filled this whole prison twice over. So no, I had not forgotten."

She felt her cheeks warm at his subtle criticism, and at-something else as well (though what exactly, she couldn't have placed). Hoping he wouldn't comment on her glowing cheeks, she looked at her shoes-new, patent leather ones bought with her first paycheque, a symbolic reference for her (though one which Ardelia had thankfully not understood. No doubt the comments on that would have been extremely disapproving). His eyes followed hers, and he chuckled softly to himself behind the Perspex.

"So your shoes have finally caught up then?"

The rest of the hour passed painlessly, with both skating around the deeper questions they had probed the month before. Eye contact between them-something that had rarely been difficult before-suddenly seemed charged, full of sparks. Everything they said to each other was dissected in Clarice's mind simultaneously, and by the end of the interview she had exhausted herself with it.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter watched her as her heels clacked out of the corridor. He listened for their echoes as they rounded the corner, and then the metallic clang as the door slid shut.

She smiled to himself, knowing he would be listening.

He smiled to himself at the thought of her cheeks flushing when he had commented on his feelings regarding their meetings. He knocked on the glass of his cell and called softly to Barney.

"Would it be permissible for me to have my pens today? I feel the creative urge coming on."

One hour later, and he felt that he had captured the expression in her face when she had so charmingly ducked her head to the floor after he had berated her. He wasn't sure about the direction of one of her eyes-it seemed a little off point-but the drawing itself was, aside from that, one of his better ones, and the imperfections in it only served (in his mind) to highlight the perfections of the subject in reality.

One hour later, and Clarice Starling stood in the kitchen in her semi, inhaling a mug of coffee and staring out the window, her eyes unfocused and her mind elsewhere. There was a spark within her, set off by her meeting today, and it seemed to her to be fizzing around her veins, igniting every cell of her body (though with what, she couldn't have said). Finally snapping back into the scene, she placed her coffee down and walked over to the door to remove her new shoes (she had forgotten, such had been her rush). Placing the shining leather down and knocking some of the mud clinging to the heels off with a light tap, she sighed happily.

He had noticed them-as, of course, she had meant him to.


	6. Chapter 6

The next phone call came the Saturday after their visit. Clarice, again, was not expecting it-although she realised later she probably should have been. After all, nothing was without attached benefits in the FBI, and her "chats" with Doctor Lecter were only another part of this.

"Starling?"

"Yes?"

"It's Jack Crawford here. I have a proposal for you."

Clarice inwardly groaned, then felt an instant slash of guilt across her heart. He was sure to ask her to talk to Doctor Lecter about cases, there was no other option. And it was interesting, and without it and him Catherine Martin would have been dead and Clarice would not forget that (her peaceful nights would not let her), but she did admit to herself in her heart of hearts that deep down, she liked talking to him-for him. Talking to him about his insight on smaller things than life or death, talking to him to hear his quips, talking to him to see if he would tell her his own story-having heard so much of hers already. And with a case file between them that would stop before it had really even begun. Quid pro quo, while necessary at the time, was not the way to form any kind of relationship now. But this was a thought Clarice Starling knew she could not express-or really, should be feeling, so instead she locked it away and replied:

"And what is it Sir?"

She instantly began to analyse how she had sounded. Too loud, brash, angry maybe? Or had she not been authoritative enough? Had she sounded weak or pandering?

"This is kinda a delicate matter Starling. If you could come to my office tomorrow at 0900 hours, I can tell you more then. Oh, and Starling?"

"Yessir?"

"Don't tell anyone else about this call."

The office the next morning felt as lost as last time she had walked in here; the plant pots on the windowsills were dying, and there was only a photo frame on the desk to show any kind of personality inhabiting the cell. But at least, this time, the walls were clear of their previous news cutting wallpaper-which, Clarice supposed, was good.

"Ah, good to see you Starling."

"Good morning Mr Crawford." She replied, spinning round. He had caught her by surprise-like the last time. She really had to start checking her corners.

He turned and closed his door firmly.

"Starling, this request is extremely unusual, and I must stress to you that if at any point you feel uncomfortable we will entirely understand your quitting."

Clarice froze. "Understand" and "quitting" were not words that were commonly heard from any member of the FBI. They were the equivalent of cuss words here, and Jack Crawford would have been the last man she would have considered hearing them from. This could only signal danger.

"We saw your progress with Lecter over the Catherine Martin case, and the way that you handled yourself was exemplary. The fact is Starling...there is nothing Lecter relishes as much as pain. And your pain in particular, seems to be some form of drug to him."

He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"What we-I-would like you to do is to continue your game with Lecter. Get close to him, learn more about him. And keep us informed at all steps, no matter what. We need this intelligence Clarice, and you are the only agent I think stands a chance of keeping him out of your head. He also seems to feel some sort of respect for you-he didn't come after you when he'd escaped, after all."

He refrained from mentioning that when Lecter had been apprehended, the receipts left in the car rental showed that one of his stops to refuel had been only 3 miles from Starling's duplex, and one of her neighbours remembered seeing the car during the day. Some things, he felt, she didn't need to know.

"Sir-have I understood this right? You want me to talk to Lecter about myself, in the hope that we learn something new out of him? You want me to go and talk to him as a normal person, one to one? Nothing more?"

The incredulity in her voice was palpable, but Crawford misinterpreted it.

"I know it's a big ask Clarice, but there's no one else and we really think it would be good to have him on our side-or at least, have his knowledge on our side. There's no one else who could do it."

She nodded, feeling wave after wave of emotions roll over her, all of them indecipherable.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Starling?"

"Has this always been your plan? To have me act as your-inside spy on Lecter? I mean, even from the beginning, before we knew he would help us with Catherine Martin?"

He turned away, a quick flash of shame skating across his face.

"Starling-we were desperate. You must see that. I felt there was no other choice, no other agent. We needed you."

She nodded, helplessly. He had caused this. He had done this. It was his fault, all his. She might have gone her whole life without the name Hannibal Lecter ever causing her more than the brief pause in conversation it caused everybody in polite society. Because of him, she would never have that peace again.

She didn't know whether to thank him or slap him.

He broke across the storm rolling through her mind.

"So, Agent Starling-will you do it? You will need to be incredibly careful-I'm sure he'll sense your agenda, but perhaps if we send you in there with a case file he'll misinterpret it and well, we can always get you out of there if we have to..."

"Agent Crawford, of course I'll do it."

She felt intensely guilty at the relief that diffused across his features.

But then really, as he had said-she was the only agent for the job. Who else was brave enough?


	7. Chapter 7

She walked into Lecter's corridor the next day. Barney had left the chair out, as normal. She was sure that the new management wouldn't think to bug her chair-Dr Chilton having previously disappeared on a trip to the Caribbean and she knew that his morals and methods had not been typical-but she couldn't help wondering. She would just have to be more careful about what she said this time. She hadn't found the courage to ask Hannibal about Dr Chilton yet. She didn't think she'd like the answer.

He was listening as she approached him-the rhythm of her feet seemingly the same as every time before. This time though, he instinctively felt that something was different as she walked into view. Her head was held slightly differently, her hands clutching the case file were a little too pale, and-he inhaled deeply, flaring his nostrils-she was wearing L'Air du Temps. The wave of it that came through the holes in the glass were so strong, he knew instinctively that she was wearing it on her skin, and that it was no second hand breeze from her handbag-which, he also noticed, was again her best. Why so much effort on one visit? What was she planning?

Clarice sat down and looked at him.

"Dr Lecter..." She began, but he swiftly intercepted her train of thought and put his hand up to stop her.

"I'm sure your pleasantries were extremely well thought out and prepared, Clarice, but I must stop you there."

He stepped a foot nearer to the glass, and scrutinized her face for a reaction, breathing deeply at the same time. Nothing. Her eyes remained equally dilated, her hands didn't clench, and he smelt no tell tale waft of adrenaline. She was not scared of _him_, then.

"This, for you, is not a normal visit." He began, and then intensified his gaze upon her face.

Her reaction was immediate. He pupils dilated slightly, her knuckles went a shade paler, and instantly he was hit by a wave of her apprehension. Oh yes, this was most definitely not a normal visit.

"Has Jacky-boy over at the FBI intervened somehow? Has he commented on our discussions, set you a challenge? Has he given you a case different from the one you are so desperately clutching right now?"

Her eyes showed him yes.

"So what is it, my brave Clarice? What are you planning not to tell me? Are you planning to trick me somehow? Into doing what, precisely? Or is it something else, hmmm? Think carefully before you answer; you know I don't suffer fools wisely and I will not make an exception for you."

She watched him, noted his own reactions while remaining highly aware of her own tell tale instincts. Dammit Clarice, why the perfume! She should have known he would realise from that alone, and her clenching fists and widening eyes would have given him enough else to be sure. She hadn't begun this well at all, and she hated being on the back foot.

She blinked, slowly, surely. Considered her options. Then lied through her teeth.

"Doctor Lecter, we-I-have more need of you to help us with cases. Your instinct on the Buffalo Bill case was incredibly useful, and-well-many of our current cases could use your input. I know you won't want to, but it really is-desperate."

"Interesting Clarice, you say our cases, but is that quite true? Have you yet been given the Behavioural Science position you crave, even though it has been –what, a full 4 months since the denouement of that particular adventure?"

His eyes flashed.

"No Clarice, you lie again, and I will not listen to it now." Suddenly pushing his face even closer to the glass, he hissed again, as he had before-to scare her, to make her leave, to make her run.

But this time she didn't flee. This time, she stood up, slowly and surely, and stepped towards the glass. She stared at him, and he-shocked for once at this unexpected event-stared back.

"Doctor Lecter, you will have to listen to me because I will make you. Jack Crawford don't know anything of the truth of what we talk about at these visits, and if he did he would never let me come within a cotton pickin' mile of you. So I will have to lie, and you will have to listen. You told me once that you have nothing else to think of but the past and these visits-and I know you enjoy seeing how you can wrap me around your little finger. So, I'm asking you, one person to another, please. Either I can come here and you can help me with these here cases, or I can never come here again. I know it isn't ideal, and I know it isn't right for either side, but I promise you that although I've been sent for reasons perhaps less noble than I would have liked them to be, I will not work for ends-for either side-that I find to be immoral or unfair. And that includes spyin' on you, for all that it's worth. So please, Hannibal-listen to me now."

She sat down, exhausted and scared. Her emotional walls-normally so firmly shored-had slipped slightly, and it had come out in her accent. He would have noticed; he noticed everything. But had he noticed enough?

Doctor Hannibal Lecter turned slightly from her, his head gazing over his shoulder to the point where he knew his drawings of her were stored. What a fighter she was, his brave Clarice.

"I will indeed listen to you, Clarice. And for what it's worth-your word is intrinsically worth a great deal to me."

She nodded, and stood up, grabbing her file, her throat closing and her eyes tearing slightly.

"I'll come back next week Doctor."

He wondered, watching her back as she walked out. Had she noticed that she had called him Hannibal?

She smiled, reaching the door. She had seen his eyes widen at the "accidental" use of his first name, and knew that her arrow had hit its target. Her smile slipped slightly at the thought of his soft voice telling her how much her views meant to him. How many people had said that to her, lamb as she was in a lion's world? Had he meant it? Did he really think of her in such a high light? And could she really deny to herself that she couldn't help feeling the smallest modicum of pity for him in that cell? She thought of Jack Crawford's face and frowned slightly.

This was going to be harder than she'd envisaged.


	8. Chapter 8

**Just to inform you before you begin this chapter, I will be renaming this fic (in fact, it may be done by the time you read this). It was returning, but I will be calling it from now on "Lamb among the Lions". I liked the phrase, and I thought it was better than "Returning" (which was, lets face it, fairly weak).**

* * *

><p>The charcoal gaze on the paper followed him as he paced intricate designs on the bare concrete floor of his cell. Something about that meeting, something, had been wrong.<p>

He almost didn't want to believe it (and if anyone could fool themselves efficiently and effectively, it was him), but he had begun to seriously doubt his little Starling. It had all been going so well-he had forced her to a point of reliance outside her precious FBI, had made her question her oh-so-strong instinctive views-had even passively threatened her and watched as she withstood it so strongly, so beautifully-so now, in the middle of his well laid plans, this!

It was an event he was totally unprepared for. He had been sure that Crawford would, at some point, ask Clarice to spy on him for him (he shuddered at the thought, the lack of privacy repulsive to him, as was the discourtesy of the supposition). But he had been sure that either Crawford would have asked already in this stage of the proceedings (in which case, he had already had plans laid to work around it), or that he would ask later (in which case, it would have been left to see who Clarice would have chosen). But now, right now, when she was at her most vulnerable (for he had seen to that)-why now? And why could he not bring himself to believe her version of events when she had looked so innocent? What was it that was pulling at his memory, tugging the beautiful tapestry of that scene to pieces as easily as cutting a thread? What was it?

His eyes flashed a deeper maroon as it hit him.

As Clarice had been speaking to him so forcibly, as she had seemingly struggled with her inner demons so beatifically in an effort to tell him the truth (which, she had rightly calculated, he had found it incredibly difficult to look away from, the pain in her eyes Oscar worthy and better than any drug to him)-as she had struggled, she had paused slightly, infinitesimally, minutely. But there it had been and there it stood now in his mind. A pause before-that.

And immediately, a thousand other details, previously overlooked for the glory of her tear filled eyes reached the forefront of his mind triumphantly their long journey from its very recesses; mind over matter yet again. Her knuckles had whitened slightly; the angle of the case file had changed by a fraction of a degree to behave more as a shield; and under L'Air du Temps, that intoxicating odour, had been for the slightest of seconds the briefest scent of-fear. Then-Hannibal. She had said his name. But it had been a bargaining chip, nothing more substantial than that.

His little Starling was a true fighter indeed. He had chosen wisely.

He relaxed, his mind whirring through a million different possibilities at once as he began to settle on his chosen plan of attack.

"And don't worry my darling," he murmured under his breath, "it will be in all ways worthy of you yourself."

Clarice Starling slept soundly in her bed, unaware that her ruse had been rumbled except for the slight hissing that interrupted her restless dreams of lambs, which she could not have explained away in the morning-had she remembered it at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you sincerely for all the reviews, I can't tell you how much more enjoyable they make this process and I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. While it is important for me that Clarice is shown as a a strong character, who is intellectually gifted as well as compassionate and would not simply back down to Doctor Lecter, I didn't want to make her more intelligent than the Doctor himself. She may out smart him in some areas, and I think it eminently possible that some of her actions may surprise him (he isn't a soothsayer after all), but I doubt highly that there is any way she could have actually tricked him-hence this chapter (short though it was, sorry about that). She nearly did though. But not quite. Maybe next time-but then, considering that he's onto her now, maybe there won't be a next time. Keep reading to find out!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Enjoy (hopefully)!**

* * *

><p>Clarice Starling returned a week later to the asylum, her plan crystallised in her mind and ready to be put in motion. Her heels clicked along the stone floor, and she enjoyed the sound they made, swishing her hips in order to keep the rhythm right. There were few places and times when she allowed herself to do such things-the masculine air of Quantico had forbidden them in all but name, and anyway, she was rarely inclined-but it put her in the mood she felt she would need to be in for the interview.<p>

In his cell, Hannibal Lecter raised his head from the brown paper he was sketching on, and closed his eyes in a moment of ecstasy. There was something, something in the air that had been disturbed by an unexpected movement. His eyes flicked subconsciously to the felt tip lines in front of him, woven together in a web to create a pieta in which his brave Clarice was the Madonna, cradling her lamb and gazing out at the viewer with a look of pain mingled with pride. During his years of freedom, he had often gazed into the eyes of various artists' Madonnas, hoping to find some kind of recognition or peace, but he had never drawn his own. There had been no subject who was enough somehow-no symbolism quite right for him. His memories of Mischa and his mother could have been enough, he knew that, but somehow he had never felt right. He also had the fear in his mind (although it was un-admitted and unwanted) that if he had tried to get their faces down for posterity on paper, he would have failed in his remembrance and he would lose them somehow. He had an excellent memory, it was true and the idea was ridiculous anyway-but that knowledge didn't allay the fear. Shaking his head, his walls went up again.

Her bag knocked against her hips as she turned the corner into the antechamber control room and smiled at Barney.

He smiled back. He had seen her walk down the corridor, and watched the way she was walking. Something about her today seemed different. Almost cheery. And that was unusual to be inside a place like this, and so for that, he liked her. That and the fact that she was the only other person he'd met who treated Doctor Lecter as a person. Barney didn't feel it was up to him to judge the Doctor's state of mind (although if he had, he would have found himself disagreeing with Chilton immensely), but he still felt strongly that although society may consider him mad and dangerous, he, Barney, should consider him human and treat him as such. And to find someone else with the same moral code was rare.

Clarice, oblivious to Barney's inner turmoil, walked through the gate after greeting him and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the gloom as the second gate slid across.

Hannibal, aware of her arrival, mentally ran through his plan and then carefully placed the tip of his pen on the paper and made one change.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

A second later, Clarice Starling walked into view of Doctor Lecter's cell, perfectly timed to catch him placing down his pen and looking up-as he had intended.

"Good morning Clarice. I hope you are feeling well today."

"Thank you Doctor, I am-although you may be sorry to hear that Jack Crawford isn't."

He raised an eyebrow, doubting her.

"Really? Whatever is wrong with him?"

"Just 'flu they think, but he's been taken off Behavioural Science for a few weeks. Ever since his wife dies, he's been running himself into the ground."

"I see. And who, may I ask, is his replacement?"

She grimaced. The thought of his replacement was not one she liked.

"They brought someone over from the Justice Department, just to run admin stuff, nothing more. All the deputies are still there though."

"You evidently have strong feelings against him Clarice."

She looked up swiftly.

"Well-yes, but how...?"

"You didn't tell me his name."

"He's called Paul. Paul Krendler. And yes, I do have strong feelings against him. Actually, I hate the bastard."

He flinched at the word, and she noticed but didn't apologise.

"And why would you hate a temp that much? After all Clarice, he won't be there for long."

She stared bluntly. "He stopped me in the corridor the other day and asked my how my f***-buddy the cannibal was. Told me that he'd like to taste me himself, then laughed, grabbed my ass and walked away. I get enough trouble as it is, I don't need shit brains like him jumping on board the bandwagon too."

Hannibal Lecter looked away from her stark gaze, his own eyes simmering and spitting. How could they be so coarse? Could they not see the specimen they possessed? If he had been in a position of any importance at that place, he would have promoted Clarice to the very highest authority. Just observe the way she was trying to play on his emotions now-it was truly a magnificent thing to behold, and she was doing it superbly. This part though, he could tell, was unrehearsed. Her eyes were a little too strong, her gaze a mite too pleading, her face a degree too open.

That he had to analyse all these things to believe her only increased his admiration.

Clarice shook her head. She really hadn't meant to get into all that nitty-gritty, and she didn't want to be reminded.

"Doctor Lecter, we have to get back to business. We only have a certain amount of time after all, and I have a new case file for us."

"Well then Clarice, let us turn our minds to the more pleasing topic of...what is it this time?"

She placed it into the metal drawers and covertly pinched herself to bring herself back from her emotional relapse. She slammed the drawer rather harder than was needed (he noticed and felt triumphant; she reprimanded herself) and sat back down to begin the discussion.

Really, he reflected later as she left, it had all gone very well. She was proceeding precisely as he wanted her to.

He smiled, his eyes glinting as he carefully stored the single staple she had left in the case file when she had so swiftly handed it over under his mattress. That would come in useful later.


	10. Chapter 10

Clarice Starling saw him one more time before it happened. One more time to discuss, to evade, to prevaricate. One more conversation in which she felt completely outwitted at every turn.

Watching it back on the CCTV cameras that had been quietly installed all around his cell when Doctor Lecter had escaped, Jack Crawford sat back in his chair, stunned. He had been watching all of their conversations and monitoring her progress through the assignment carefully. She was, after all, his protégée. More than that though, he had been monitoring Hannibal himself in order to pick up any details Clarice missed. And at this particular point on the tape, he knew exactly what the man in the cell was sketching. It disturbed him, and it had been his intention that after this final meeting, he would finally end these-"talks"-for good. They weren't helping them in any way-and he was beginning to worry with the level of immersion and mind games Clarice had already had.

He watched the black and white Lecter tilt his head, then suddenly stand, and knew who would shortly be walking into shot. Sure enough, 2 seconds later there appeared a minuscule Clarice, who perched herself onto a chair and pulled a case file onto her lap from the leather bag resting by her ankles. He slotted the headphones onto his ears and began to listen to their conversation.

"Forgive me for noticing Clarice, but I notice that your outfit is considerably improved since we last met. Are they new shoes?"

Crawford felt himself throw up a little bit.

Clarice on the other hand, seemed to-he thought-blush slightly. He hoped that that had been feigned. Hell, what was he talking about; of course it had been feigned. He was an idiot to suggest otherwise.

"Indeed they are Doctor Lecter. I thought you'd approve; I know you were perturbed by the state of my footwear the first time we met."

"Hmm, yes, but it's more than that, isn't it? You're wearing L'Air du Temps as well-again-and you have made a special effort, I think-although that is not to disparage your normal outfits, which are, of course, beautiful-but you have made a specific choice in your ensemble this time."

At this, Crawford was pleased to see, Clarice ducked her head and then looked up, a slight hint of pain on her face. "Good girl", he muttered, "bait the cannibal. Be angry. How dare he be so familiar, so...so...!" (The word he was looking for, although he would never have used it by choice nor optionally associated it with the Cannibal, was courteous.)

"We have to get back to business Doctor. This case file-a new one-warrants your attention more than my blouse."

"I would contest that Clarice, but I feel you would be displeased. Very well, we shall turn our attention to the case file you have so kindly brought."

The next 30 minutes on the tape passed in a static-filled discussion of the case file Jack Crawford had made up for Clarice (not that she knew that). He watched Hannibal's reactions carefully every time Clarice made a point, and was displeased to note his attention to her every word. It almost seemed creepy-too close for comfort (his, anyway).

Suddenly, Lecter put his hand up as if to stop Clarice.

"I think, my dear Starling, that something here seems wrong. There is a-prepared-aspect to this crime which seems far too-planned."

"Well, that is generally the point Doctor- "Clarice began, but he cut her off quickly.

"I think, Clarice, that you have been-so to speak-fobbed off by the powers that be. This cannot be a real case at all; the solution would seem to be far too obvious."

"You overestimate our abilities Doctor; I haven't got it yet. And anyway, there's no way they would fob me off with a fake case file. I am an agent, I can be trusted!"

Jack saw the indignation and slight hint of panic on her face, and cursed himself for ever doubting her more than ever at that moment.

"No Clarice, there is definitely something up here. If the clues the-"killer" had left at the crime scenes were to actually be treated as such, they would, in fact, spell out an anagrammed name of sorts. Agent Olive Hit, in fact. Is there anyone you know with such a name?"

"Well, no..."

The doubt slashed across her face.

"And so why would a bona fide killer leave puzzles to create an anagram of a fake agent at his murder scenes? Can you or your precious F-B-I create...any explanation?"

By this point, Crawford could see that Clarice's eyes were watering. It had hit her harder than he had feared.

"Doctor, I have to go. I'm sorry-I have to."

Crawford went to turn the screen off as the black and white Clarice made her hasty exit, but as his finger went towards the power button, he noticed something. Hannibal Lecter looked directly at the camera-and smiled. Then, slowly but surely-he winked. With a shudder, Crawford's finger shot out and the screen shot to nothing.

Leaning back in his chair, he replayed the events he knew had happened directly after that scene.

He had come back to his office halfway through his break to pick up some photos that he had left-they were of his wife, and he had missed them. He'd only been there for an hour or so, checking his emails quickly (although he knew it was good for him, he hated taking protracted breaks). She had run into his office unexpectedly, her eyes red but no tears visible. She had slammed the case file on his desk and crossed her arms.

"Jack, tell me straight. Is this a real case file?"

A lifetime of lying, and where it really mattered he had lost it for one second. She had caught him off guard, and she also caught the guilty flash in his eyes.

She had lost it then.

"YOU SON-OF-A-B****! How could you do that, you, you...! I was sent in there under your orders, trying to play up my authority, and within an hour he guesses at what I was too bloody naive to believe-that you, you f***** me around and gave me a FAKE FILE!"

"Clarice, we had to! We couldn't have trusted that man with real information!"

"But you could have trusted me! You could have told me it was fake, instead of letting the Cannibal locked behind bars tell me what I was too stupid to see!"

He had no reply for that.

Unfortunately, someone else did.

"You see, we just doubted that you would be able to resist his charm. We thought that he might have some kinda hold on you that meant you might let it slip. And we didn't want to anger the Cannibal."

Clarice whirled around to face the eyes of Paul Krendler, who had sauntered in.

"He is not just a Cannibal, he is a man! And what about angering me!"

"Your anger is less formidable that your f*** buddy's, sweetheart. In fact, I didn't even think you'd mind."

And with that, she'd slapped him.

And so Clarice Starling, newly qualified agent extraordinaire, had been temporarily suspended from her active duties within the FBI while an investigation was carried out on the orders of Paul Krendler into her handling of herself regarding her discussions with Doctor Lecter and her reprehensible use of personal violence.

She lay in bed, tortured by lambs.

He sat in his cell, planning.

Crawford realised something, suddenly. He reached over to his desk for a copy of the case file he had given Clarice, and rifled through to te pretend clues left at the scene. They didn't spell out "Agent Olive Hit" at all, nowhere near-it was close enough to fool a casual observer, but there was no "g" or "t" in them. "Agent Olive Hit" was an anagram of Lecter's own invention.

In her bed, Clarice Starling started suddenly. She had realised the same thing-and she had the solution.


	11. Chapter 11

Crawford ran out the room, desperate to find someone who could help him. The adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he could have screamed with it. That b****** Lecter! Why could he not have just let her believe it, gone along with it! Why had he had to ruin the whole operation by appealing to her morality, of all things! And then adding in this little code out of nowhere-his eyes, scanning the room frantically, rested upon a phone placed on the desk nearest him, and he grabbed it. It took his mind a second to recall the number, but as soon as he had it he punched it in and slammed the phone into his ear, desperately whispering "Pick up, pick up, please, please pick up.."

Mummified between her cheap polyester sheets, Clarice Starling had woken up suddenly, drenched in sweat. There was something wrong. There was no such person as Agent Olive Hit. There was no way that that had been the anagram from the clues left. The letters were wrong, the pattern false-why make that the answer, why not make it real? Therefore it couldn't be real, he must have made it up, and it must have a meaning meant for her. And, in a moment of pure adrenaline, his solution hit her. Her hand automatically reached towards the phone on her bedside table, always within reach in case of an emergency, but then-for reasons she couldn't place then and would have even more trouble identifying later, she paused. They had fired her-or at least, as good as. They didn't want her advice, her input, her thoughts or opinions. They didn't want her, they didn't value her. She wasn't theirs. So why, why should she help them now? He listened. He wanted her opinions, he valued her and he would have listened to her forever. He would have appreciated her intelligence, her capacity-he did, he had told her so. So why would she help them against him when he was the one who wanted her? Locking the feelings away as swiftly as she could, she shook her head and began to dial. She had made an oath, she had promised, and she would uphold that above any insignificant feelings she may have-they could be compartmentalised and hidden, they did not matter. But as she lifted the phone, it rang of its own accord.

"Starling? STARLING!" came the voice, so loud she could hear its cadences without placing it to her ear.

Her impulses, so deeply ingrained after years of training kicked in. "Yessir! What is it?"

"That discussion you had with Lecter, he told you something, something he said was an anagram but it wasn't-Agent Olive Hit. It didn't fit Starling, it didn't fit, he made it up! You know him, you can do these kind of things, you've done them before-can you work out what it means? Goddamn, we need you, Starling!"

For a second, a single second, everything crystallised and cleared. She had the solution. She could tell him, take the glory, be the King of the FBI. Krendler, that arrogant ass would be nothing. She would make her father proud of her. She would make everyone proud of her. Everything they had said would be taken back. No one could doubt her virtue.

Or she could keep it quiet, and therefore be considered-by them and by herself, partly responsible. After all, if she didn't tell them then she was doing nothing more than withholding information. But she knew the law, she knew they were equal really. And she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Feeling broken and confused, she whispered into the speaker, "I've got it. The solution. It means...I leave tonight. That's what he's telling me. He's escaping."

In Baltimore State Asylum, Doctor Hannibal Lecter picked up the heavy duty staple left by Clarice at that fateful meeting and carefully fitted it into the gap between the crumbling wall (helped, of course, by him-both before and after his last escape attempt. Really, it was lazy the way they hadn't even checked his cell. Maybe they had been afraid to. The thought amused him.). He wiggled it, found the weak spot in the lock and twisted. Free. He was free. He didn't know that his anagram had been spotted by someone other than Clarice Starling. He didn't know that it had been decoded. And he didn't know that within 2 hours, Clarice Starling would be hurtling down the highway in her rusting car, desperate to make it on time-though for what, she didn't know. She didn't know what she could or would do she when she got there either, but there must be something. Anything.

Her foot slammed on the accelerator and the car screamed as Hannibal roared.


	12. Chapter 12

**I have an apology to make before this chapter-a small typo in the previous chapter which affects the plot slightly vitally. Essentialy, while it originally said "He was unaware that at this moment, Clarice Starling was speeding down the highway towards him" (or thereabouts)-well, that isn't true, and I have changed it. It now says something along the lines of "within 2 hours, Clarice Starling would be...". You'll see.**

**Also, I realise that some of the logistics could be better explained, but honestly? Thomas Harris created a genius, and getting him to escape successfully is nigh on impossible. So this is my first attempt, and I know there are holes but...just don't tug too much. Please and thank you.**

* * *

><p>The car skidded into her spot, and, checking her holster was in place and her gun loaded, she slammed the doors and ran in. She knew she should wait for reinforcements, she knew she should wait for help, but she couldn't stand to. This was happening, it was being decided and she had to be here. The minute Crawford had hung up on her, she'd grabbed the nearest outfit and jumped into the car; he had told her-specifically-to wait and to do nothing, but she felt she had done something terribly wrong, she couldn't shake the feeling and she rarely felt like that, and so, to cleanse herself she had come. She reached the heavy doors. She paused. She opened them with a dramatic sweep of her arms and ran through.<p>

Either security was very lax these days, or the system had already been disabled. No alarms went off as she ran through cold corridors, slamming the gates she passed through-although she was glad to note that all of the doors to cells were still locked. Some things just worked better manually, her brain noted from a place distinct and above the chaos of her consciousness. She reached what had been Chilton's office and flipped off the safety, backing into the door and pulling out her gun.

She turned, kicked the door.

She gasped.

There, on the floor, lay the Prison overseer, seemingly dead. And over him stood-Hannibal.

"How..." she began breathlessly.

"My brave Clarice. How nice of you to join us. I was about to leave after bidding farewell to this old friend. You seem to have arrived just in time."

"HOW DID YOU ESCAPE?" She shouted, aiming the gun at him.

"Aaah, Clarice. You see, you left something in one of the case files a few weeks ago. More than just good thoughts and-what is it? Vibrations. No, it was something which you were not meant to send through under any circumstances. My, how Crawford would be disappointed if he knew."

"No! I wouldn't! I didn't..." Her voice trailed off as she remembered looking through that particular file and noticing a few pages loose. She had assumed lazy copying, something like that. Maybe she'd picked the wrong one, maybe she'd dropped it. Anything but this. How could she have been so stupid! Why had she not been thinking! She had been distracted, and she had sworn never to deviate from her purpose.

"Clarice, I see you berate yourself severely; you shouldn't, you know. It was an easy mistake to make after all. Those greater than you have made worse. I assume you told your colleagues about my little message to you..." She looked away, blushing against her will. "Ah Clarice. I am somewhat disappointed. At least, though, you redeemed yourself. Without you, I am sure they would have taken hours to decode it."

"Why? Why are you disappointed Doctor? It's my job, I'm an agent, I made a vow. I would have been disappointed in myself had I not called them! There is nothing I place above justice, not even you!" The fire in her eyes inflamed him, but he remained calm.

"That may be, but you didn't call them, did you Clarice? They called you. I can see it in your eyes."

She diverted rapidly, blushing yet again. Really, she would have to do something about this. "So how did you disable the security system, Doctor?"

Why wasn't Crawford here yet, surely he would have called the asylum the minute she'd told him? They would have known, they would have been prepared, ready...then she realised. She had been too late anyway. Her prevarication and worry had been for nothing.

"Scrap that. How long have you been free, Doctor?"

He smiled slightly. It made her shudder (though with what emotion specifically, she didn't know.). "Well done Clarice. It is a mistake many make to assume that time runs on one line and their own is the dominant one which weaves all others into it. The patter of life is much more varied, I find. I have been free from my cell for roughly three hours now-so assuming you drove here in one hour and a half, and adding fifteen minutes for various-necessary activities, you understand that the call Crawford placed never got through to those he intended it to. It reached me, and only me, and I ensured that it got no further. As to how I got out my cell originally, one of the guards was lazy and tired. He had most fortuitously dropped his key near the bars of the second gate, I was able to slide it through and unlock it. I locked it again afterwards, never fear. We couldn't let the psychopaths escape. He woke up then."

Hannibal Lecter went into a short trance as he remembered the look of panic on the guard's face when he had seen his own face looming near.

Clarice, fully aware of what he was thinking, brought him out of it sharply.

"What about his partner Doctor? What did you do to him? Guards never work alone, there was someone with him-so what did you do to him?"

"He had gone to the bathroom; I merely had to wait and then-incapacitate him. Guards are slacker these days since the disappearance of Dr Chilton, and Barney has been ill. They should have been doing their jobs. That they were not is regrettable-for them, anyway."

She cursed to herself. Where were the reinforcements? Crawford had sent them, she knew, so where were they? It didn't take this long. It hadn't taken her this long. Where were they?

"So my dear, now I have to ask you. What exactly are you planning to do next?"

And at that moment, Krendler burst through the door, holding his gun.

Hannibal acted quickly. He leapt forwards like a cobra and grabbed Krendler's arm; Krendler, unused to such quick action from on older man, was frozen. Clarice aimed but couldn't tell between the two to shoot as Hannibal pulled Krendler over to the other side of the room and opened a hidden door in the panelling, disappearing down a set of stone stairs like lightening. Clarice cast one desperate look at the door hanging open and then ran down after them.

It was hell.

Since that night in Belvedere, Clarice had had nightmares about being trapped in the dark with nowhere to go and nothing to see, and now she was there again.

"Nonononono!" She muttered to herself, her back against the cold, damp stone and her gun ready. She went at a pace so slow she swore that the water drops were moving faster than her, but she couldn't, wouldn't speed up. She didn't know what was around the corner and she feared falling over and breaking her neck on the stairs. Damn. She hated having fear.

She reached the end of the stairs and suddenly faintly saw a thread of light at her feet, which, as her eyes adjusted, grew brighter and spread around the wall. She breathed in. Rolled her shoulders. Closed her eyes.

Opened it.

The scene before her met her eyes.

Oh God.


	13. Chapter 13

Clarice Starling raised the gun and stared at the bleak choice before her, her eyes performing her customary quick scan.

It was a large chamber, thick stone walls with stains on them she didn't dare to look too closely at and no windows. Underground storage room maybe, from the asylum's old days. Or maybe it had served a more sinister purpose. She could well believe it; despite someone who didn't normally believe in such things as auras, she definitely felt something closing in on her in the air. There was only a lantern, swinging from a hook on the ceiling to give light; evidently Hannibal had prepared ahead. The lantern didn't light the whole chamber though, and she could only see darkness, spreading like a virus from about 15 foot away. She took a step forwards instinctively and the door behind her slammed shut, Hannibal turning a large and rusted key swiftly in the lock.

"Your choice, Clarice."

He walked forwards softly, his steps concealing the fire within his heart.

On her left then stood Hannibal. A chance of a different life. The man who loved her as much as he could do so, as much as he could feel that. She knew he did, she just knew, she didn't know how and she didn't know when she had realised. She just knew that she knew now. What her own feelings were was unclear. There was something there certainly, but a spark rather than a flame. Still, a spark was better than no tinder at all. What had he done to her, to make her debate this, to treat him now as a human? When had he done this? She thought she had been winning their little "chats", but evidently he had been pulling her strings just as much as she clumsily jerked at his. Angrily, she cocked her gun at him.

Her eyes shifted.

On the right, hands and legs tied together, wrapped in black tape and suspended from the ceiling by another hook, was Krendler. She gave him a quick body scan, and felt a stab of what seemed like annoyance that he was still in one piece, still alive, and wriggling like a cocooned insect. She shook her head. She should be relieved. She was relieved. He was her chance at respectability, advancement in the FBI, her boss. Her job, her career, what had-until now-been her life, represented in one slimy bureaucrat she hated with all her heart. The sexist pig, he was hardly a fair representation of her dream. Still, a representation he was, in all his misogynistic glory as he hang from the ceiling.

She could only shoot one, but she had to shoot one to get out. He had devised this; it was a test, the final test. Whomever she shot, her decision would be made for her in an instant. Merely by shooting she would decide. The click of the trigger. Dammit Clarice, why couldn't she do it? It had been so easy in her practises, her training. She was overanalysing it, she must be. It would have been so simple on paper. She had to shoot one of them in order to escape. There was no way Hannibal would let her get free that easily, and she had seen how fast he could move. He had left her in no doubt that he could act as quickly as breathing. She couldn't outthink or outrun him. She had to choose.

Clarice Starling was normally good with a gun, but it had never felt heavier in her hand than it did today. Either way, a story ended here, by her doing, by her action. One of her lives.

And she loved and feared both in equal measure.

"HURRY THE GODDAM HELL UP STARLING, YOU BITCH!" cried Krendler. Hannibal had left his mouth ungagged, assumedly so that his vitriolic drivel would turn her choice even more. He'd walked into it. She jumped at his words though, and cast him a look full of pure hatred. He flinched slightly, and the action made him spin round in mid air, like a puppet. It made her smirk slightly, despite her fear.

Clarice eyed him up and down. She turned her head and looked at Lecter. He had his eyes closed, and seemed to be in a mode of meditation, with his hands thrown back slightly. It was almost as if...he expected her to shoot him. His pose reminded her of something, and it took her a moment to place, but when it did it shocked her. He looked like her childhood remembrances of images of Daniel in the Lions Den. The Lutheran orphanage had been big on religious stories, and that one had always stuck in her head due to the multiple illustrated Bibles she had been forced to read and remember. A man, cast into darkness, an inch from death-but the mouths of his enemies closed by God, allowing him to survive while his enemies later perished. He looked like the ultimate sacrificial lamb. The ultimate symbolism. Only Hannibal would.

Only Hannibal could.

Two years ago, and she would have done it instantly-twisted to her left, and bathed in the glory after as the slayer of the evil cannibal. Two years into the future-given time for the menial jobs set by those who were jealous of her to turn her heart to stone, the loss of faith in her beloved bureau to turn her love to hate, and the chance for Krendler to wear her down every day with his casual sexism, misogyny and idiocy-she would have turned to her right with bare hesitation and walked off into the sunset with the Maroon-Eyed Man. They would have lived happily ever after, if there was such an option for them. But here, now, she couldn't do anything so suddenly. She was poised between the two, and there was nothing that could force her. A seesaw, poised-but not quite ready-to tip either way.

She raised the gun higher, as though it would act as a divining rod and miraculously choose for her.

And then, just as suddenly as she had been caught here, as she had been forced into this decision, with her eyes blurring and her heart thumping-but with her vision remarkably clear (the training having given her this at least), she twisted her arm and pointed the gun to her head.

The reaction of the two men in front of her was instant and telling. Krendler raised his eyes to heaven and shouted at her, much along the lines of his previous statement but with added vehemence and profanity, so strong that it made even her wince. Hannibal however, opened his eyes in alarm at the sound and smell of her sudden movements. She supposed, seeing one thing clearly through the blind terror, that he must be able to smell her fear. When he saw her new position, his eyes widened and he whispered to her.

"Clariiice. Clariiice".

She looked him in his flaming eyes and raised her eyebrows-a question and a supplication.

"What can I do, Doctor? WHAT CAN I DO? You ask too much!"

"YOU CAN SHOOT THE BASTARD IS WHAT YOU CAN DO CLARICE! YOU B****, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I KNEW YOU WERE HELPING HIM, I KNEW IT, I SAID SO BUT THEY WOULDN'T BELIEVE ME! SHOOT HIM!" Krendler butted in again.

Hannibal turned to him, eyes flashing. His whole body was tense, as if he was only barely resisting killing Krendler himself here and now with his teeth-which, Clarice thought calmly again in the midst of her trauma, he probably was.

His head snapped back to face her, reminding her yet again of a snake, a cobra, something unassuming but deadly intelligent.

"Yesss...shoot me Clarice. Shoot me. You are too interesting to be allowed to die and I will not allow you sacrifice your life to save your soul. I will die whomever you shoot, eventually. I am-sorry I forced this to happen. I would never have thought that you would be so...surprising. I should have, I realise. It is not the first time you have been so. Clarice, please-shoot me."

She stared at him, her heart in her throat. He gave her a long, slow, sad look which sent electricity coursing through her, 300 volts in every nerve. It was their touch in Memphis but on speed. She could have believed that she was dead at that moment, and that this was the release of her soul, her death in his stare. She could have lved forever just staring at him. Her blue eyes, filled with pain, and his red ones, full of fire, fought and connected, electricity flowing between them. She felt lit alight, burning as a beacon, a sacrifice. Then, their emotional battle and his tacit admission of love seemingly having exhausted him, he closed his eyes slowly, deliberately as if awaiting death.

She looked to her left. She looked to her right.

She moved her arms.

She breathed in and counted her pulse.

The tears coursed down her face, washing her clean. She didn't even realise that they flowed.

Her values or him?

-

Twisting, heart breaking, she shot.

* * *

><p><strong>Aaaand that was the last chapter! Don't worry, there will be a short epilogue coming very soon. Tomorrow soon.<strong>


	14. Epilogue

Clarice Starling sat in a small cafe, drinking her cafe au lait. A band started playing nearby-a tune she recognised vaguely, something melodious, peaceful-a French lullaby possibly, half remembered from her childhood. That would hardly be surprising, she added to herself wryly. She was in France after all.

Finishing the coffee, she picked up her croissant and spread it with the strawberry jam proffered by the waiter. Some things were too good to miss, although she knew she would have to run later to apologise; she wasn't yet used to treating herself with luxuries like this. Walking past the macaron shops was torture every time. She had only succumbed twice so far, but she was anticipating another relapse today.

Walking through the streets later, a reflection flashed by in a shop window. It made her stop, start, and then stare. She looked so...different. Her hair, short and blond (she had fancied a change), her clothes-if not the height of fashion, not too far down the ladder (her shoes heels and in vogue), and her-well, her general air. She seemed, even from a reflected image, to be sophisticated, modern, special. She felt sophisticated and modern. The special...she was working on.

In the hotel room later she checked her phone. No new messages. She hadn't had any contact for a while now. She'd return there soon, she was sure, but for now...it was just her here. And she liked it that way.

Asleep that night, the Lambs were peaceful. But new events had awakened Clarice's subconscious, and there was more than the screaming of the Lambs to wake her up. Again and again she saw the chamber, the bloody chamber; again and again she took aim...and fired, her finger tugging and her heart shattering.

And, as if on repeat for a million times,her aim was perfect and the lantern hanging from the ceiling exploded in a firework of shards.

She felt herself go through the remembered actions, felt her mind conjure them up. First his pocket, get the key, avoid skin contact. Then the door, lock it behind her, stop, think, wait. Then the stairs (being careful again), go out through the hidden door, close it behind her securely, then the office, the bleeding corpse on the floor acting as the reminder of earlier events to pull her back to reality. The door to that room, the corridor beyond, the officers in formation.

"CLARICE STARLING, FBI!" She screamed, again and again.

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE ARE THEY?"

And then her pause, the other momentous one of the night. In that moment timelines passed before her eyes, visions of futures flashed. The world rested on the point of a pin, fragile and balanced. And she made her choice, and stepped down the path, the pin fell and the seesaw tipped, night after night after night after night.

"THEY WERE BACK IN THE OFFICE SOMEWHERE, I DON'T KNOW WHERE THEY WENT!"

Then she had begun sobbing, her whole body convulsing. She wasn't ready. she hadn't been ready to choose, she couldn't do it. But the minute she left that room, she knew what her choice should have been. And she berated herself for it nightly in her dreams.

They hadn't caught him (of course). And she hadn't wanted them to. She had, after all, been in possession of the only key to that chamber (not that they knew that, then or now. It had taken them long enough to find the chamber's existence). There had been another way out though, she was sure of it. They had got in eventually (guns serving where she would not), and there had been no one there, just shattered glass and the faint smell of gunpowder. Well, no one alive, anyway. And he had let her go, she was sure. She had seen how fast his reactions were. There was no way he didn't foresee what she would do the minute her gun tilted at a surprising angle. He had let her go, let her have her freedom. Had he accepted that the test he set her was too harsh? Or had it been a part of his plan all along? The questions battled on in her mind.

So Hannibal lived on, somewhere.

And she lived her own life, an independent woman, divorced from the FBI (honourably expelled-too many questions raised in the raid and left unanswered, partly by her. No proof enough to incarcerate her though-another thing she had to thank him for, the FBI never having been able to prove that she had even been in the chamber) and exploring the world on her own impetus. Money was short, but then, as she had learned-as he had taught her-so was time. Life. She strolled through the capitals of Europe and saw everything through newly awakened eyes.

She felt not one pang of regret.

She felt, in fact, very little.

And everywhere she went, everything she did, along with all the head she turned, a pair of red eyes followed her.

One day, they would connect again with the blue.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading and reviewing-I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I'm not yet sure whether I'll write a sequel (I left it open deliberately), or another story set around the same time-if you have any preference please message me, but otherwise I hope you have a lovely ChristmasHanukkah and a very happy New Year!**

**And I'm sorry that they didn't end up together. I just felt that Clarice's decision to completely change her life like that needed to come after more work between them, and more disappointments for her; it was something that needed to feel natural and at this point in time it would have felt forced. Yes, she loves him and he loves her, but the timing wasn't right and it didn't happen because she was still waging her internal war. He forced her hand, so to speak, and he did it too early. Who knows-maybe another time?**


End file.
